Especially when she’s an attractive woman.
“I tried to keep her safe, that’s all.” He looked at her. “So, yes. I ended up falling in love with her.”
“And what is this, Rick?” She looked at his hands, still grasping hers. “What’s happening here? Is this for me, or for her? Because I’m not Anna. I’m not her replacement.”
“I’m here because you need me.”
“This is like a replay. You’ve cast yourself in the same role, as the guardian. And I’m just the understudy who happened to step into Anna’s part.”
“It’s not like that.”
“What if you’d never known my sister, if you and I were just two people who’d met at a party? Would you still be here?”
“Yes. I would be.” He leaned toward her, his hands tight around hers. “I know I would be.”
For a moment they sat in silence. I want to believe him, she thought. It would be so easy to believe him.
But she said, “I don’t think you should stay here tonight.”
Slowly he straightened. His eyes were still on hers, but there was distance between them now. And disappointment.
She rose to her feet; so did he.
In silence they walked to the front door. There he paused and turned to her. Gently he lifted his hand to her face and cupped her face, a touch she did not flinch away from.
“Be careful,” he said, and walked out.
She locked the door behind him.
TWENTY-NINE
MATTIE ATE THE LAST STRIP of beef jerky. She gnawed it like a wild animal feeding on desiccated carrion, thinking: Protein for strength. For victory! She thought of athletes preparing for marathons, honing their bodies for the performance of their lives. This would be a marathon, too. One chance to win.
Lose, and you’re dead.
The jerky was like leather, and she almost gagged as she swallowed it, but she managed to wash it down with a gulp of water. The second jug was almost empty. I’m down to the bitter end, she thought; I can’t hold out much longer. And now she had a new worry: Her contractions were starting to get uncomfortable, like a fist squeezing down. It didn’t qualify as painful yet, but it was a harbinger of things to come.
Where was he, goddamn it? Why had he left her alone so long? With no watch to track the time, she didn’t know if it had been hours or days since his last visit. She wondered if she had made him angry when she’d yelled at him. Was this her punishment? Was he trying to scare her a little, make her understand that she had to be polite and show him some respect? All her life, she’d been polite, and look where it had gotten her. Polite girls got pushed around. They got stuck at the end of the line, where no one paid them any attention. They got married to men who promptly forgot they even existed. Well, I’m through being polite, she thought. If I ever get out of here, I’m going to grow a spine.
But first I have to get out of here. And that means I have to pretend to be polite.
She took another sip of water. Felt strangely sated, as though she’d feasted and drunk wine. Bide your time, she thought. He’ll come back.
Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, she closed her eyes.
And woke up in the grip of a contraction. Oh no, she thought, this one hurts. This one definitely hurts. She lay sweating in the dark, trying to remember her Lamaze classes, but they seemed like a lifetime ago. Someone else’s lifetime.
Breathe in, breathe out. Cleanse …
“Lady.”
She went rigid. Stared up toward the grate, where the voice had whispered. Her pulse hammered. Time to act, GI Jane. But lying in the darkness, breathing in her own scent of terror, she thought: I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready. Why did I ever think I could do this?
“Lady. Talk to me.”
This is your one chance. Do it.
She took a deep breath. “I need help,” she whimpered.
“Why?”
“My baby …”
“Tell me.”
“It’s coming. I’m having pains. Oh, please let me out! I don’t know how much longer it will be …” She gave a sob. “Let me out. I need to get out. My baby’s coming.”
The voice fell silent.
She clung to the blanket, afraid to breathe, afraid to miss his softest whisper. Why didn’t he answer? Had he left again? Then she heard the thud, and a scraping.
A shovel. He was starting to dig.
One chance, she thought. I have just this one chance.
More thuds. The shovel moved in longer strokes, scooping away dirt, the scrapes as jarring as the screech of chalk on a board. She was breathing fast now, her heart banging in her chest. Either I live or die, she thought. It all gets decided now.
The scraping stopped.
Her hands were ice, fingers chilled as they clutched the blanket to her shoulders. She heard wood creak, and then the hinges gave a squeal. Dirt spilled into her prison, into her eyes. Oh god, oh god, I won’t be able to see. I need to see! She turned away to protect her face against the earth trickling onto her hair. Blinked again and again to clear the grit from her eyes. With her head down, she could not see him standing above her. And what did he see, staring down into the pit? His captive huddled under a blanket, dirty, defeated. Wracked by the pains of childbirth.
“It’s time to come out,” he said, this time not through a grate. A quiet voice, utterly ordinary. How could evil sound so normal?
“Help me.” She gave a sob. “I can’t jump all the way up there.”
She heard wood grate against wood, and felt something bump down beside her. A ladder. Opening her eyes, she looked up and saw only a silhouette against stars. After the pitch blackness of her prison, the night sky seemed awash in light.
He turned on a flashlight, aiming it down at the rungs. “It’s only a few steps,” he said.
“It hurts so much.”
“I’ll take your hand. But you have to step onto the ladder.”
Sniffling, she rose slowly to her feet. Swayed and dropped back down to her knees. She had not stood up in days, and it shocked her now, how weak she felt despite her attempts to exercise, despite the adrenaline now pumping through her blood.
“If you want to get out,” he said, “you have to stand up.”
She groaned and staggered back to her feet, unsteady as a newborn calf. Her right hand was still inside the blanket, clutching it to her chest. With her left hand, she grasped the ladder.
“That’s it. Climb.”
She stepped onto the lowest rung and paused to steady herself before she reached up with her free hand for the next rung. Took another step. The hole was not deep; just a few more rungs and she’d be out of it. Already, her head and shoulders were at his waist.
“Help me,” she pleaded. “Pull me up.”
“Let go of the blanket.”
“I’m too cold. Please, pull me up!”
He laid his flashlight on the ground. “Give me your hand,” he said, and bent toward her, a faceless shadow, one tentacle extended toward her.
That’s it. He’s close enough.
His head was just above hers now, within striking distance. For an instant she faltered, repulsed by the thought of what she was about to do.
“Stop wasting my time,” he ordered. “Do it!”
Suddenly it was Dwayne’s face she imagined staring down at her. Dwayne’s voice berating her, scorn shoveled upon scorn. Image is everything, Mattie, and look at you! Mattie the cow clinging to her ladder, afraid to save herself. Afraid to save her baby. You just aren’t good enough for me anymore.
Yes I am. YES I AM!
She let the blanket go. It slid off her shoulders, uncovering what she had been clutching beneath it: her sock, bulging with the eight flashlight batteries. She brought her arm up, swinging the sock like a mace, the arc propelled by sheer rage. Her aim was wild, clumsy, but she felt the satisfying whump as batteries slammed into skull.
The shadow reeled sideways and toppled.
In seconds she
was up the ladder and scrambling out of the hole. Terror did not make you clumsy; it sharpened your senses, made you quick as a gazelle. In the split second after her feet touched solid ground, she registered a dozen details at once. A quarter moon peeking out from behind branches that arched across the sky. The smell of soil and damp leaves. And trees, everywhere trees, a ring of towering sentinels that blocked out all but a narrow dome of stars overhead. I’m in a forest. In one sweeping gaze she took all this in, made a split-second decision, and sprinted toward what looked like a gap between those trees. She found herself suddenly hurtling down a steep gully, crashing through brambles and whip-thin saplings that did not snap in two but lashed back at her face in vengeance.
She landed on her hands and knees. Scrambled back to her feet in an instant and was running again, but with a limp now, her right ankle twisted and throbbing. I’m making too much noise, she thought, I’m loud as a trampling elephant. Don’t stop, don’t stop—he could be right behind me. Just keep moving!
But she was blind in these woods, with just the stars and that pitiful excuse of a moon to show her the way. No light, no landmarks. No idea where she was or in which direction help might lie. She knew nothing of this place, and was as lost as a wanderer in a nightmare. She fought her way through underbrush, heading instinctively downhill, letting gravity decide which direction she should take. Mountains lead to valleys. Valleys lead to streams. Streams lead to people. Oh hell, it sounded good, but was it true? Already her knees were stiffening up, the aftermath of the fall she’d taken. Another tumble and she might not be able to walk at all.
And now another pain gripped her. It brought her up short, catching her in midbreath. A contraction. She doubled over, waiting for it to pass. When at last she could straighten again, she was drenched in sweat.
Something rustled behind her. She whirled and faced a wall of impenetrable shadow. She felt evil closing in. All at once she was running away from it, tree branches slashing her face, panic shrieking at her. Faster. Faster!
On the downhill slope she lost her footing and began to tumble, and would have slammed belly first onto the ground if she had not caught herself on a sapling. Poor baby, I almost landed on you! She heard no sound of pursuit, but she knew he had to be right behind her, tracking her. Terror sent her hurtling on, through a web of interlocking branches.
Then the trees magically evaporated. She broke through a last tangle of vines and her feet slammed onto packed earth. Stunned and gasping, she stared across ripples of reflected moonlight. A lake. A road.
And, in the distance, perched on a point, the silhouette of a small cabin.
She took a few steps and stopped, groaning as another contraction gripped her in its fist, squeezing so tightly she could not breathe, could do nothing but crouch there in the road. Nausea flooded her throat. She heard water slap against the shore, and the cry of a bird on the lake. Dizziness washed over her, threatening to drag her down to her knees. Not here! Don’t stop here, so exposed on the road.
She staggered forward, the contraction easing now. Pushed herself onward, the cabin a shadowy hope. She started to run, her knee throbbing with every slap of her shoe against the dirt road. Faster, she thought. He can see you here against the lake’s reflection. Run before the next pain clamps down. How many minutes until the next one? Five, ten? The cabin looked so far away.
She was pushing herself all out, now, legs pumping, air roaring in and out of her lungs. Hope was like rocket fuel. I’m going to live. I’m going to live.
The cabin windows were dark. She rapped on the door anyway, not daring to shout for fear her voice would carry back up the road, up the mountain. There was no answer.
She hesitated only a second. To hell with being a good girl. Just break the goddamn window! She grabbed a rock near the front door and slammed it against a pane, and the sound of breaking glass shattered the night’s silence. With the rock, she batted away the few remaining shards, reached in, and unlocked the door.
Breaking and entering, now. Go, GI Jane!
Inside she smelled cedar and stale air. A vacation house that had been closed up and neglected too long. Glass crunched under her shoes as she hunted for a wall switch. An instant after the lights came on, she realized: He’ll see it. Too late now. Just find a phone.
She looked around the room and saw a fireplace, stacked wood, furniture with plaid upholstery, but no phone.
She ran into the kitchen and spotted a handset on the counter. Picked it up and was already dialing 911 when she realized there was no dial tone. The line was dead.
In the living room, broken glass skittered across the floor.
He’s in the house. Get out. Get out now.
She slipped out the kitchen door and quietly closed it behind her. Found herself standing in a small garage. Moonlight filtered in through a single window, just bright enough for her to make out the low silhouette of a rowboat cradled in its trailer. No other cover, no place to hide. She backed away from the kitchen door, shrinking as far into the shadows as she could. Her shoulder bumped up against a shelf, rattling metal, stirring the smell of long-gathered dust. She reached out blindly along the shelf for a weapon and felt old paint cans, their lids caked shut. Felt paint brushes, the hairs shellacked solid. Then her fingers closed around a screwdriver, and she snatched it up. Such a pitiful weapon, about as lethal as a nail file. The runt cousin of all screwdrivers.
The light under the kitchen door rippled. A shadow moved across the glowing crack. Stopped.
So did her breathing. She backed toward the garage bay door, her heart battering its way to her throat. Only one choice left.
She reached down for the handle and pulled. The door squealed as it slid up the tracks, a shriek announcing: Here she is! Here she is!
Just as the kitchen door flew open, she scrambled out under the bay door and ran into the night. She knew he could see her moving along that pitilessly exposed shore. She knew she could not outpace him. Yet she struggled forward along the moon-silvered lake, the mud sucking at her shoes. She heard him moving closer through the clattering cattail reeds. Swim, she thought. Into the lake. She veered toward the water.
And suddenly doubled over as the next contraction seized her. This was pain like none she had ever known. It dropped her to her knees. She splashed down into ankle-deep water as the pain crescendoed, clamping her so tightly in its jaws that for a moment her vision went black and she felt herself tilting sideways, toppling. She tasted mud. Writhed, coughing, onto her back, as helpless as an overturned tortoise. The contraction faded. The stars slowly brightened in the sky. She could feel water caressing her hair, lapping at her cheeks. Not cold at all, but warm as a bath. She heard the splash of his footsteps, the snapping of reeds. Watched the cattails part.
And then he was there, standing above her, towering against the sky. Here to claim his prize.
He knelt beside her, and the water’s reflection glinted in his eyes in pinpoints of light. What he held in his hand gleamed as well: a knife’s silvery streak. He seemed to know, as he crouched over her body, that she was spent. That her soul was only waiting for release from its exhausted shell.
He grasped the waistband of her maternity slacks and pulled it down, revealing the white dome of her belly. And still she did not move, but lay catatonic. Already surrendered, already dead.
He placed one hand on her abdomen; with the other, he grasped the knife, lowering the blade toward bared flesh, bending toward her to make the first cut.
Water fountained up in a silvery splash as her hand suddenly shot up from the mud. As she aimed the tip of the screwdriver toward his face. Muscles taut with fury, she drove it upward, the pathetic little weapon suddenly launched with lethal aim at his eye.
This is for me, asshole!
And this is for my baby!
She thrust deep, felt the weapon penetrate bone and brain, until the handle lodged in the socket and could sink no deeper.
He dropped without uttering a sound.
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br /> For a moment she could not move. He had fallen across her thighs, and she could feel the heat of his blood soaking through her clothes. The dead are heavy, so much heavier than the living. She pushed, grunting with the effort, repulsed by the touch of him. At last she rolled him away and he splashed onto his back among the reeds.
She stumbled to her feet and staggered toward higher ground. Away from the water, away from the blood. She collapsed farther up on the bank, dropping onto a bed of grass. There she lay as the next contraction came and went. And the next, and the next. Through pain-dimmed eyes she watched the quarter moon wheel across the heavens. Saw the stars fade and a pink glow seep into the eastern sky.
As the sun lifted over the horizon, Mattie Purvis welcomed her daughter into the world.
THIRTY
TURKEY VULTURES TRACED LAZY CIRCLES in the sky, the black-winged heralds of fresh carrion. The dead do not long escape Mother Nature’s attention. The perfume of decomposition draws blowflies and beetles, crows and rodents, all converging on Death’s bounty. And how am I any different? Maura thought, as she headed down the grassy bank toward the water. She too was drawn to the dead, to poke and prod cold flesh like any scavenger. This was such a beautiful place for so grim a task. The sky was a cloudless blue, the lake like silvered glass. But at the water’s edge, a white sheet draped what the vultures, circling above, were so eager to feast on.
Jane Rizzoli, standing with Barry Frost and two Massachusetts State Police officers, stepped forward to meet Maura. “Body was lying in a couple inches of water, over in those cattails. We pulled it up onto the bank. Just wanted you to know it’s been moved.”
Maura stared down at the draped corpse, but did not touch it. She was not quite ready to confront what lay beneath the plastic sheet. “Is the woman all right?”
The Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle Page 121
